My Zombie Honeymoon: Love in the Age of Zombies Book One (34 page)

The paranoid delusional, suspicious, neurotic part of me packed up his bags and walked out. He knew it was game over. I practically heard the door slam shut behind him.

Still half-crying, she said, “So you’re not upset?”

“Yes, I’m upset! In a good way! The idea of you and me making a baby . . . it’s wonderful news! Oh, my God, this means . . . January, December, November, October . . . you’re going to have the baby in October!”

“Or maybe September, I’m not completely sure. Are you really happy about this?”

I got to my feet, ignoring the ache in my leg.

“Let’s have a toast! Can you drink? Will it hurt the baby? Or, let’s go have sex! Or, let’s tell someone! Who is there to tell? Let’s tell Doc! . . . Oh my
God
, I think I may just explode! Let’s dance!!” I think that’s what I said. I don’t even know if I was making sense.

But she saw the absolute joy on my face and stood up, a smile breaking across her face like the warm sun breaking through clouds on a cool Michigan spring day after a recent shower.

“So you’re really happy? You’re not just pretending?”

I gave her a huge hug. “I’m very, very happy,” I whispered in her ear.

She finally accepted the fact that not only was I not going to leave her, but I was happy with the news. She started laughing. And crying.

“I was so afraid you’d be upset,” she said, “I didn’t know what I’d do.” She smothered my face with kisses. “I’m so relieved and happy! Yes, I’m going to have your baby! I love you so much, and I wanted to be happy about it, but was scared! Oh, Kevin, thank you for not being upset. Thank you for being happy! Thank you so very much for not being gay!” She reached out and grabbed my hand and then pulled me down onto the sofa with her. Then she immediately stood back up. “I’m going to have your baby! I’m going to have our baby! I’m going to have a
baby
! I’m going to be a mother!!” Suddenly she sat back down and her face grew pale. “Oh my God. I’m going to be a mother. What if start acting like my mother? What if Kevin Junior or Michelle Junior hates me?!”

I pulled her back up into my arms and said, “Now whose turn is it to be a knucklehead? You’re a wonderful person, you’re going to be a wonderful mother! When did you find out?”

“I started to suspect about a month ago. I was late, but I didn’t have any way to find out. I don’t exactly carry around pregnancy tests in my bag. I told Doc about it and he told me what I already knew—missing one period doesn’t mean you’re pregnant. But I’ve missed two now, and my body feels different. My breasts are getting bigger. See?” She unbuttoned her dark blue blouse and slowly took it off. God, I love it when she does that. It was especially nice since she’d been hiding them from me for a while. She wasn’t wearing a bra (why bother?), so I was instantly treated to the sight of her full breasts. She was right, I could tell they were bigger, just as I noticed last week when I was taking the topless photos of her in the falling snow.

“Do you really think they’re bigger? I can’t really tell by looking,” I lied. “I’d better have a hands-on check.” I reached out and cupped both breasts in my hands, feeling the full weight of them. There was no doubt—what used to be a large handful was now
more
than a handful.”

“Careful!” she warned, “they’re very tender!”

“Do your nipples feel the same?” I said, lightly pinching them between my fingers and thumb.

“Ouch! I told you, they’re sensitive! But I’ll bet if you’re gentle your mouth and tongue would feel nice,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

I leaned over and did exactly what she suggested—I used my mouth on her nipples. And on her kitty. And even though I’d just come a half hour earlier, I was already getting hard. Then we got naked, she straddled me and we had glorious sex.

When we were back to snuggling—the second time today—she started talking again. She told me she had been having conversations with Doc about it. He asked her a lot of questions and told her not to worry so much.

So that was who she was talking to. And that’s what they were talking about. No wonder she’s been acting strange and moody. She suspected she was pregnant and thought I’d toss her out. Good grief.

I leaned back on the sofa in the dim light, my mind racing. A lot of the pieces of the puzzle about her fell into place. Why she was single. Why she didn’t talk about her parents much. Why she moved here—it was partially to escape, to start over. Then something occurred to me. “Michelle, you nut, why in the world did you give me a blow job right before you told me this?”

She blushed. “I thought it might put you in a good mood. But that’s not the only reason. For some reason, my libido keeps dipping and spiking. And tonight I really wanted to have you in my mouth. I wanted to have one last moment of intimacy before I told you, in case you threw me out. But then after you finished, I got sad, wondering if that was the last time I’d get to do that with you.”

I started laughing. “A pregnant woman gave me a blow job this afternoon. I can’t wait to put
that
in my journal!”

A pregnant woman gave me a blow job this afternoon.

Michelle is pregnant. With my baby. I can’t get over it. I feel love and happiness and a twinge of fear. She won’t have any medical care. No doctor or tests to run or sonogram. But women had babies long before there were sonograms or blood tests. We just have to be careful and smart.

Now she sleeps next to me. It’s been a long day. Between the oral sex, the intense conversations, the paranoia, the revelation that I’m going to be a father, and the magnificent sex afterwards, I’m all done in. Not to mention the time it’s taken me to write these thoughts down. I think I’ll go crawl into bed with Michelle. Pregnant Michelle.

At Last She Sleeps

After hours of weeping

At last she sleeps

for the people she loved

and her family she weeps

halting and tearful

her despairing recollection

Of the places they went

Before their heartless disaffection

Back when they loved her

Back when they spoke

Back when they lived

Back when she hoped

March 19
th

It’s been just over a month since I wrote last. We’ve been busy, converting part of the storeroom into a nursery, raiding the houses in the neighborhood for diapers and baby food. I even found a copy of
What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

We’re in the middle of a cold snap now, so we don’t have to worry much about zombies attacking us when we’re outside foraging. They’rfe still pretty slow. But we’re always on our guard, looking for other people. When possible, we travel through back yards to avoid the street.

I worry about entering a home and being attacked by a survivor who thinks I’m a bad guy. So when I enter a house, first I gauge the temperature. If it’s completely unheated, then obviously no one is living there. So far, every house has been pretty icy. Some of the houses’ windows have broken, from zombies or survivors or bad weather, so the elements have had free access and so have the varmints. I have to be on my guard—one moment of distraction and Michelle would somehow have to survive her pregnancy and birth without my help.

The houses all seem to fall into one of three categories. Actually, four categories, but one category is finding survivors, which hasn’t happened.

One: The house is empty. The owners bugged out.

Two: The occupants are in the house, dead at their own hand.

Three: The owners are there but they’re zombies.

I’ve come across some horrific scenes—in one house, just two streets over, I found a family of five, huddled together in bed. I saw no signs of struggle, no blood. I’m glad it’s been so many months since they died, because I’m sure the stench must have been fierce back in the fall. As it was, the house still smelled bad, but it was tolerable.

The mother and father were probably in their early forties. They held what appeared to be a baby and two kids. The kids looked to be under the age of ten. It was difficult to tell, since most of their flesh had rotted away, and it looks like some kind of varmint got to them at one point. At least there weren’t rats like in some houses.

After making sure the house was safe, I started looking for supplies and discovered the oven was open and the gas had been left on. The parents—one or both—must have planned it. They asphyxiated peacefully, as a family. At least the house didn’t blow up.

Which might explain why some of the houses
did
explode or catch fire. I suppose some people may have turned the gas on, forgetting to turn off the pilot light
.

But I found a treasure trove of goods in the house with the gruesome family scene. A crib, a baby bed, formula, baby food, even a lot of powdered milk and diapers. When I went back on my second trip, I even rounded up some stuffed animals and toys.

I have a lot of things to accomplish these days. Not much time for writing.

March 25
th

Michelle is suffering with morning sickness. I know it’s normal and usually wears off, but Doc says it sometimes lasts all nine months. I feel sorry for Michelle, but I also feel sorry for me—for whatever reason, the smell of hot coffee makes her puke. I’ve broken the coffee habit, but when I feel desperate I go upstairs and make coffee with the French-press. I drink the coffee while peeking out the windows, then dump the grounds into one of the pots filled with dead houseplants.

When I go back downstairs, I have to brush my teeth right away. We learned by experience that even coffee on my breath is enough to send Michelle racing for a bucket to throw up in.

Pregnancy has done wonders for her. Her breasts are getting bigger (yay!), and her areolas have doubled in size. It’s very sexy, as is her baby bump. She’s let me take a lot of photos. Sometimes after she falls asleep I get up and look at the photos. Her pregnant body is an unexpected turn on! Unfortunately, her sex drive has waned. Initially, she couldn’t get enough, but now we only have sex three or four times a week. That’s okay, I can deal with it. In fact, it’s hard to feel sorry for myself when I recall friends complaining about their wives only wanting sex three or four times a year. Plus, when she’s in the mood she still enjoys using her mouth on me. She’s an oral artist.

Michelle’s calling. I’d better run. She might need me to empty her barf bucket.

Life’s a dream.

April 2
nd

Michelle is starting to show. She has a cute little baby bump. She still has morning sickness, too—I was hoping it would wear off. Strangely enough, she’s gotten over her nausea from coffee. Now she drinks half a cup along with me, although we’re trying to limit how much caffeine she gets.

I’ve been revisiting houses in the neighborhood, emptying them of anything we can use. Tools, weapons, even some art objects I liked. Plus diapers and formula. In one house I found a shoebox of Petoskey stones. I felt like I’d hit the jackpot.

I’m worried about Doc. I haven’t heard from him for a few days. That’s not like him. I keep the radio turned on all the time, hoping he’ll call, but he hasn’t. A lot of scenarios run through my head. Zombies, of course, but he could have been hurt in some kind of accident, or he could have gotten the flu, or maybe somebody broke in and attacked him. The problem is, something may have happened and I’ll never know.

Michelle doesn’t seem as worried about it as me. She says he probably went on a hunting trip or something. I sure hope he’s okay. He’s my only friend besides Michelle.

April 5
th

Still haven’t heard from Doc. Could he still be hunting? Do people hunt in March? What would they hunt for? I know most hunting seasons are in the fall—or were in the fall, but now I suppose it doesn’t matter. Or maybe he’s fishing. Maybe he loaded a canoe with camping gear and fishing equipment and is having a good time. Or, hell, maybe his radio broke somehow, or he ran out of fuel and has no power.

I had a frightening encounter today while scavenging. I go alone now, I don’t let Michelle go with me. The further I get from our house, the more zombies I see. I avoid most of them.

I have to do everything I can to be ready for the baby. I need diapers—not just newborn diapers, but diapers to last until the baby’s potty trained. That’s two years or more! Geez, I have one hell of a lot of diapers to stock up on.

Which brings up another point: What on earth will we do with the dirty diapers? During warm weather I can bury them, but what about during the winter? Stack them up in a frozen mound outside? That’s not very appealing. I guess I can toss them into the zombie dump.

We’ve had a warm spell for the past week. Highs in the fifties, lows in the forties. The zombies are moving a bit faster. I don’t believe it’s an early spring—it’s way too early. I recall plenty of snowstorms in May.

When I go scavenging, I take along a small glass cutter left from my feeble attempt to create stained glass windows years ago. I use the glass cutter to make a small hole in a window, just large enough for me to reach my hand in and unlock the window (or door, if it’s a storm door or sliding glass door). There’s no point in causing any more damage than I have to, plus it’s much quieter than smashing a window or forcing a door.

Earlier today I was on my bike, towing a small wagon I use to haul stuff. I crossed over into Dicken, a neighborhood nearby. I’d say the houses sold in the $200,000 range and up. They’re fancier, the lots are larger, and hopefully their pantries are larger.

I was being as stealthy as I could. That’s not easy—the ice storm brought a lot of branches down and even some trees. I can’t avoid them all, no matter how careful I am, and they break and snap when I ride over them. When zombies hear me they start moving in my direction, but they’re slow enough to avoid as long as I don’t stay in one spot too long.

I pulled down a side street and went around the back of the first house. It was a two story brick house, nicely maintained. When I got to the back door, I saw it had been forced open, perhaps recently. It looked like someone used a crow bar. I entered cautiously—whoever had broken in could still be here. I stood still just inside the door, listening, looking, sniffing. I couldn’t smell the stench of zombie. I couldn’t see anything amiss. I didn’t hear any sound. It was very cold in the house—probably in the mid-30s, which confirmed no survivors lived there. The door I entered led into the kitchen. There were a few dishes on the counter and in the sink. A bouquet of dead flowers was on the kitchen table, along with some mail and a newspaper, the Sunday edition of the Ann Arbor news. The headline read:
DISEASE CONFIRMED IN ANN ARBOR
. It was from mid-September, about the time I rode my bike out past Dexter.

The cabinet doors were open and most cabinets were empty. Checking around, I found nothing I could use. No food, no drugs, no alcohol or weapons. Usually I can find
something
I can use, but this time I struck out. Someone beat me to the punch.

This bothered me for several reasons. One, it indicated there were other scavengers. Two, if they were going house to house like I was, they would eventually get to our neighborhood. And to our house. That could be serious bad news. Three, by beating me to the punch, they are taking things I need.

According to my way of thinking, canned goods, dry goods, alcohol—once they’re gone, there will be no more. Maybe ever. What’s easy pickings now will end up being impossible to find later.

Not knowing if the person or people were still around, and feeling nervous about it, I decided to head back home. I was walking the bike back to the front when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye.

I immediately flattened myself against the wall. Peering around the corner, I could see a man across the street a couple doors down, loading a bunch of cans into a grocery cart near the front door. He had a German Shepherd with him. When he finished loading the cans, he went back in the house and a few minutes later came back with more stuff.

I noticed he had a pistol tucked into his jeans. I decided it would be best to avoid him.

I grabbed my bike and quietly began to move toward the back yard. I had only moved a few feet when I stepped on a stick that broke with a loud
snap!

Immediately the dog started snarling, and it sounded like it was running my way. At the rear of the yard was a chain link fence—I ran toward it, threw my bike and my wagon over, then vaulted over. Of course, the bike and wagon crashing to the ground made even more noise.

I left the wagon where it landed, but grabbed my bike and ran behind a tool shed. Just as I rounded it, I heard the dog come racing into the yard, barking and growling.

As it continued barking, I heard a male voice say, “Sic ‘em, Matey!” The dog bounded over to the fence and continued barking. Thank God there was a fence between us, because his bark alone scared the shit out of me. The dog kept barking, racing along the side of the fence. I stood pressed against the shed, wondering what the man was doing. I felt like I stood there for a half hour. I tried to breathe as quietly as possible, and my heart pounded in my chest.

“Matey, come,” I finally heard him say. The dog gave a few last barks, then retreated, following his master back toward the front. At least I hoped so.

I didn’t dare move until I was sure the man and dog were gone. After about five minutes of silence, I dropped to the ground and inched my way along the shed to peer around the corner.

No sign of man or beast. Thank God. I was about to get my butt home as fast as I could—this was the first survivor I’d seen, and it unnerved me—but then started reconsidering.

What if this man wasn’t a bad guy? What if he was like me? Maybe we could help each other.

How was he surviving? Were there others with him?

Was he a threat?

Plus, knowing he could come scavenging in our neighborhood—it didn’t sit well with me. I decided I had to at least
try
to find out something about him. I left the wagon and bike and jumped a few side fences until I was a half-block or so away. Then I cautiously made my way between two houses and crawled along some bushes in front of one of the homes. From there I watched the man make a couple more trips into the house and load the shopping cart.

He began to wheel the cart down the street, the dog warily following along. When they got a decent distance in front of me, I skirted to the next house, then the next, following them discreetly.

He took a few side streets, and after about a half mile I saw him approach a large building. As I got closer, I could tell it was a school
.
He opened one of the side doors with a key, then the man, dog, and cart all disappeared. The door closed with a
clang!

I took a look at the grounds and saw a playground and basketball goals. An elementary school. As I thought about it, I realized it was a pretty smart place to hunker down. Schools have a lot of security features. The doors were solid metal, the classroom windows were very small and barred, and there was a lot of open space around the buildings. Good for surveillance. Looking closer, I could see security cameras. I wondered if he had electricity.

The school would be equipped with a large kitchen, limited medical supplies, showers, and probably with a large pantry filled with enough food to feed hundreds of kids.

He had a good setup. I didn’t begrudge him. I still didn’t know if he was alone or not—for all I knew, there could be hundreds of people inside. Or there could be just one man. And a dog. Keeping all this in mind, I headed back to my bike. I decided it was time to get home. Being outside like this made me suddenly feel very vulnerable.